


The Storm

by marquise_angelica



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquise_angelica/pseuds/marquise_angelica
Summary: Geryon responds to his feelings -- and as if turns into a flying death. A fierce wind nearly knocks Vergil down, but he clings tightly.
Kudos: 8





	The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/731373) by Маркиза Анжелика. 



> This is a translation of my own fanfic, original is written in Russian.  
> Songfic to our beloved Bury The Light.

A dry, impossibly prickly wind tears bits of cracked skin from cheeks. Strikes unblinking eyes. Vergil leans as low as he ever can do, embracing Geryon's neck. A Yamato shard is gripped in his left arm.  
He looks ahead – and cannot stay silent, feeling the freedom that is approaching.

Vergil sings. But words dropping his lips barely sound aloud. Words are rhyming to each other without sense. Lines from poems, Eva's songs and feelings from soul that, it seems, is cracked all over too. Otherwise, where do rhymes that instantly melt in memory are coming from?

He sings – as reads a mantra. A ball of words in a small voice – until complete exhale. A sharp inhale at the moment the hooves hit – and again from the beginning. 

But it has to be. The sound of his own voice keeps him in reality.

The power of Geryon keeps Vergil intact, slows down the running of his time. The horse is obedient – and incredibly fast. Every now and then the space ripples, dividing into the past and the future, and the fast-footed demon saves another, another, another second of precious time for the rider. He, too, can get tired – but now he may have even more strength than the master has.

Geryon had been coming when it was needed. He had been sensing the abnormal distortions of space, had been jumping into time – just for a couple of moments, but at the speed of a demon it sometimes saved life – and once he led to a shard of Yamato. To the key. The last thing left was to find a place in the demon world where Sparda's veil is the weakest, almost shining through. A shard the size of a needle will not cope with anything larger.

Too. Weak. Has not enough strength. 

Now Geryon came the last time, though. It won't be needed anymore.

Vergil presses his whole body against its hot back. Geryon obeys his master, and Vergil shares consciousness with it.

The horse rushes even faster, obeying the desire of the arrow flying to the target.

It gets dark before eyes. He gets overwhelming with someone else's stream of feelings. Yielding to them, Vergil seems to fall out of the shackles of a crumbling body – and plunges, like into water, into disparate associations. Looks into the past.

It strikes painfully into the eyes, into the chest and into the throat, like a heavy surf.

Everything is on fire. Squeaking, grinding and screaming – is a hymn to powerlessness. Uselessness. Impossible, unbearable weakness. Time after time he loses control. Time after time he is too weak. Time after time he lost.

Fingers dig into Geryon's neck, so as not to sink into his own chest, so as not to pull out the heart from there – again – not to crush it into dust. A hot wave of darkness is bursting from within. Just lose self-control – and, by changing your form, you will waste last pieces of strength. Vergil pushes out word by word with effort, in a whisper, concentrating on breath…

He suddenly looks at himself with someone else's eyes.

Geryon sees him for the first time near the castle of Mundus. He's bloody, worn out, but free, reclaimed himself. Geryon attacks; hooves fly over Vergil's head, which is painted with ash and blood. But Vergil already knows: Geryon will lose. He boldly looks at the horse – and flashes with blue flame. His hands are empty, but he doesn't need anything. He's strong enough to handle it. Geryon is no match for Dante.

Dante…

Geryon responds to his feelings – and as if turns into a flying death. A fierce wind nearly knocks Vergil down, but he clings tightly.

Dante can't be stronger. Should not. He doesn't understand the concept.

Dante is distracted by irrelevant trifles. He allows himself to "just not love." "Just to forgive". "Just to live among people." Just to forget about everything that makes him owe his own destiny.

But the storm is approaching. It will sweep away everything that will get in its way.

Even Dante.

Geryon suddenly slows down and stops amid rocky hills, in a long, dry lowland. The smells of demons still hover here. There were legions, and then they left. There is sensed of a trace of Yamato. There is…  
Vergil falls silent. Listens.

Intuition agrees: here the veil seems to be the thinnest.

Geryon bows his neck. Vergil slides down, literally falls to dry ground - but rises to his full height and takes a step forward.

Sharp swing.

A tiny shard in his fingers flashes – and burns away, unable to withstand the spell. Vergil draws air into his chest and strides into the portal. Blackness, then followed by the light of the sun. Vergil quickly leans down, hiding his unaccustomed eyes – and grabs the nearest wall. Cobblestones seem to ripple underfoot.

How he lost the habit. His strength is running out.

But not everything has been done yet. Need to hold on...

The glance catches the inscription on the newspaper underfoot: "...Fortuna."

Yamato's call in his temples grows ever louder.


End file.
